


Aftersome

by RosaTonta



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Manga Spoilers, We Die Like Men, can't believe i'm doing this in the year 2021 but here we are, i mean not really but i'll tag anyways, i mean there's a little comfort but, up to chapter 135 or so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:33:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29394132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosaTonta/pseuds/RosaTonta
Summary: Armin has heard members of the wall cult talk of sin. Greed, avarice, covetousness. Perhaps he’s guilty of something like pride. Not in himself or his own achievements, but in Eren. In his faith that he understands this man through and through. If neither Erwin nor Eren are the saviors of humanity, maybe Armin isn’t either?Maybe this is their downfall?
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman & Armin Arlert & Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman/Armin Arlert/Eren Yeager
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	Aftersome

**Author's Note:**

> Aftersome  
> adj. astonished to think back on the bizarre sequence of accidents that brought you to where you are today—as if you’d spent years bouncing down a Plinko pegboard, passing through a million harmless decision points, any one of which might’ve changed everything—which makes your long and winding path feel fated from the start, yet so unlikely as to be virtually impossible.  
> via The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

i

He doesn’t feel different, usually. There’s the same falter in his step when he dismounts a horse too quickly, the vestigial twinge from a former fear of his heel becoming stuck in the stirrup. Illness takes him too easily, crawling down his raw-rimmed throat and settling its watery weight in his lungs. He’s still the first to be bedridden that winter, still feels the deep thrumming ache in his neck from falling asleep at a desk, still Armin Arlert. But when he catches a brief flash of his own reflection while bathing (he hates what he sees, cannot look for too long or he’ll spiral) his scars are gone from between the notches of his ribs, from his palms, from the crook behind his knee. There are times when he wakes up, startled and bathed in a thin sheet of sweat. He feels breathless, constricted, as if he’d just been snugly cocooned in muslin. He’s always chasing the tails of memories as they recede into a place he can no longer reach. Though he knows what they must be, from whom they’re borrowed. Sometimes he finds himself in a place neither of dreams nor of reality, staring into the gaping sorrowful eyes of Bertolt’s Colossal Titan. He never says a word, probably can’t in this form. And they simply stare at one another until Armin’s released from this state. The first breath of morning always feels sharper, then. Colder. Like a knife down his throat.

Now is one of those times when the differences throw into sharp relief just how _unchanged_ he is. Some distance from Karanes, vaguely in the direction of Shiganshina but just to the east, there had been a small village. Its ruins stand just over a kilometer from the towering shadow of Wall Maria. Armin can’t recall its name, it had simply been referred to as the Eastern Testing Ground for so long that he’s not sure if anyone in Squad Levi does. It’s their first time here, scoping out a base camp and transporting their equipment taking a day longer than planned. It’s funny how the newly built roads, the plans for a train and a port, make one day seem like significant time now. The air had buzzed with excitement that morning, a fresh batch of recruits chattering about their _luck_ at being posted for this exercise. Armin had struggled to pick at his bread, certain that they had different definitions of luck. He’d been new once, though that feels so long ago. He can remember the awe of being outside Wall Rose for the first time, the longing to push further and further all the way to the sea. He can remember how quickly that awe had curdled to despair. The Survey Corps hasn’t had a recruiting problem since Maria’s reclamation. On a logistical level, this is good. It’s been a long time since they’ve had personnel for a steady HQ building, for maintenance and large-scale drills. But the new recruits are different, spurned forwards by a recklessly fevered nationalism that Armin still can’t wrap his head around. 

Dangerous, is what it is. 

But those worries won’t help him now, so he folds them away for later and takes his position at the village center. He stands between what was once a private home and a small apothecary. The buildings here are older, built more loosely of piled stones and thatched roofs. The apothecary has a painted sign, bleached by the sun until he can’t tell if it’s an illustration of chamomile or coneflower. He takes a breath and gazes at a smashed window shutter. He closes his eyes and says goodbye, wishing it didn’t feel so disrespectful to raze a place whose name he can’t recall. They’d done this before, a kilometer offshore, and in the gutted ruins of his hometown, but this is somewhere new. After all, with the effort to restore Shiganshina they can’t just keep blowing it up. So they’ve found fresh earth to char. 

He can’t help the familiar twinge as he slides the knife from his belt. Mikasa and Eren, he knows, are braced behind Wall Maria. All of them are. Commander Hange is confident in their calculations, that they’re at a safe distance behind proper cover. Yet still his heart sings worry in his chest. Nothing feels as inevitable as fear’s cold grip around his neck. But he grits his teeth against it and forces every breath until the blade bites the pink flesh of his palm. He knows what happens next by heart. A wicked flash, a bolt of searing light before a great and shattering exhalation. He doesn’t feel the explosion, but he feels an expansion. The ropes of sinew, bone, and muscle climb up around him and raise him into the sky, swallowing him whole. The first time it had felt as though a clap of thunder had shaken him apart, shattered every bone and transplanted him into an unyielding mountain that he just couldn’t control. Now his immediate complaint is simply the staggering, oppressive heat of it all.  
The Colossal Titan is still a bit unwieldy, even with his sharp focus at the helm. Bertolt must have had a natural aptitude to make it seem so effortless, and he’s spent many nights punishing himself for his continued inability to be what they need most. Even Armin’s form of the titan is thinner in places, sickly and dry where the wind chafes bare tissue and ligament. The spine is exposed where the hollow of his throat would be, ghoulish and vulnerable. He releases a tumult of steam, comforted slightly by the vented heat, and lifts one arm into the sky. The movement still feels heavy as the limb responds to the command just a moment late. However, such free control of anything is a hard-won victory. At the start, he had been lucky simply to stand still without collapsing under the weight of it all and needing rapid rescue. 

Humiliating, is what he’d call it. 

At the signal, he knows they’ll be on the move. They’ve done drills before, testing his endurance, his motor skills, the potential of combining the powers of the Colossal and Attack titans. The first time he’d had Eren’s titan step into his hand, he’d felt so small. The same titan Armin had ridden, anchoring himself to his shoulder by clinging to his unruly hair, now fit neatly in his palm. He can still taste the terror in the back of his throat at the responsibility of it all. What a great show of confidence and trust it had been from Eren, to allow him to hold him and raise him high into the air. He’d transferred him from right hand to left and then back again before sluggishly lowering him once more to safety and Armin had held his breath the whole time. Eren had felt so light, the titan’s weight hardly registering on his hand. And now, as he senses the Scouts’ approach, he almost doesn’t even notice Mikasa land lightly on his shoulder. It’s the same sensation as looking down and noticing a mosquito perched on your arm on a muggy summer night. He holds perfectly still, fright’s icy grip tightening around his windpipe. It’s too easy to picture burning her away with steam, or jostling her to her death on the ravaged earth below. But he knows neither will happen. She’s leading a small squad of newer recruits, neither completely green nor experienced. The idea had made Armin sick with worry when Hange proposed it, but he knows it’s as beneficial for them as it is for him. Squad Levi may not always be there to cut him free. It’s a potential reality whether he likes it or not, and other members should know how to do it in case of emergency. It’s not their fault everyone who _isn’t_ Squad Levi is, well, generally inexperienced. 

He’s learning how to free himself from the tremendous body, hoping to gain that independence soon. But he holds still while Mikasa, watchful as always, prompts one of them to swing at the thick cords of muscle on the back of the neck. It’s a tricky incision. Too shallow and it may simply release a jet of steam and burn them, too deep and it could kill him. Or maim him, not that it would have a lasting impact anymore. But it would still hurt. He hears the telltale whiz of the maneuver gear and closes his eyes. He makes peace with whatever happens before it happens, because he has to. And then there’s the sudden gasp of air at his back and he’s tilting backwards out of the titan’s flesh as the titan tilts forward, growing limp. He takes a deep, gasping breath. His shirt is slicked with sweat along his spine, hair damp and clinging around his temples. Steam rises all around them as the monumental body begins to decay. 

“I— I did it!” 

He’s blinking his eyes open blearily through the mist, as of yet unable to tell who the recruits are by voice alone. There’s a moment of disorientation, a dizziness that seizes him upon the transfer of consciousness from one vessel to another. But even through the haze, he knows the hand alight upon his shoulder is hers. 

“Armin,” Mikasa’s voice is a gentle sigh. He smiles at the very sound of it. 

“How was it?” The main point of the exercise had been to see if he could manage the transformation’s blast. If it’s not always an uncontrolled explosion, tactical options greatly expand. But compacting all of that energy had been difficult, even with all of his focus. However, Bertolt could do it. So they know it’s possible. So too, then, must Armin.

She pauses for just a beat too long. “Commander Hange will know for sure.” 

Ah. He knows what that means. The fear is choking him now. But he doesn’t need that to know he’s an embarrassment. A failure. He can barely walk in titan form, much less _not_ mindlessly destroy everything around him through the simple act of shifting. He nods, knowing if he speaks his voice will waver from the sting of it all. Exhaustion tugs at his very bones. The titan’s body suddenly lurches forward, speeding through decomposition. One of the chattering recruits yelps, Mikasa’s eyes widening as he slides from the shoulder’s wide berth completely. He deploys his gear, the high whine of the metal lines filling the air. They find purchase. 

Armin screams. 

One hook embeds itself in the flesh just beneath his clavicle, it cleaves him through completely, anchoring him to the remains of the titan’s neck. The second jams into the space between his ribs. It pierces a lung and he lets out a desperate, choking cough. He’s dimly aware that the wet gurgles are coming from him, blood spilling hot and fast down his side as Mikasa orders the cadet to retract the wires now that he’s safely landed. Armin doesn’t need to see his horrified face, doesn’t want to. He can’t even fully understand what’s being said as flashes of pain fill him head to toe, locking his muscles with brilliant bursts from frayed bundles of nerves. It would be wonderful if they failed like the rest of him, faltered in the line of duty and stopped sending the command to suffer all through his flesh and bone. But of course, this one piece of him holds steady. 

Mikasa wraps her hand around his and _squeezes_. She presses near to his side and anchors him against the violent snap of the retracting gear. The unmistakable crack of ribs as it exits lets him know it’s over. He’s split open before them. Overripe, overwarm, iron and sweat on his tongue. He can’t even scream again, a half-moan fizzling into a desperate gasp. His lung has collapsed. The pressure in his chest has him seeing spots and gritting his teeth with every shallow inhale. It’s all he can do to slump back against the titan’s hot flesh and stare vacantly into the sky as blood bubbles up and out, spilling past his teeth and dribbling onto his collar. It’s searing, even through his clothes, but he can’t move. The blood is too warm, slick and sticky on his side. Hot, hot, everything is so _hot_. Mikasa’s voice barks something sharp and he gurgle-coughs uselessly, fighting to draw another breath. Steam curls gently from his skin as if from a bath. It’s slow, weak. It’s nothing like the vigorous plumes when Eren is injured. 

“Armin,” Mikasa’s face comes into focus as she leans into view. Worry tugs her lips downward, creases the smooth skin between her brows. He hates how it looks on her. “Armin can you hear me?” 

A half-nod, interrupted by a garbled groan. 

“I’m going to pick you up now, okay?”

All he can do is moan hoarsely. She understands, scooping him into her arms as gingerly as she can. It sends blinding pain all through him, like a branding iron. But he closes his fists against it and struggles on another excruciating breath. Next thing he’s aware of, he’s being laid out on the ground. The grass is gone, the sheer force of his transformation exposing the loam. His head falls limply back and Mikasa stays by his side, never letting go of his hand. They’ve sent up a flair, but he doesn’t know what color. He does know, however, that the others will be here soon. He’ll be on display, dejected and weak, but he can’t even care because it’s all he can do to draw his next breath and not choke on his own blood. She notices this, moving to gently tilt his head upward. Her fingers are cool and soft at his nape and his eyes flutter closed. 

He’s not sure, but he thinks he hears voices, someone yelling. Eren, his mind supplies from a distance. It’s too much to drag open his eyelids, so he doesn’t. His hand goes limp in Mikasa’s grasp as he slips into the darkness. 

It’s not that he’d thought that suddenly his strength would be greatly improved. But it feels a bit in vain, to have his body stitch itself back together. It’s an act of love for a vessel he’s always despised. For someone who’s never done anything but fall short of expectation. He’s frail and pitiable, trembling under the very weight of being alive. It’s certainly undeserved. Useless. Useless weak bastard. It’s a chant that he knows well, the words’ jagged peaks and valleys a familiar taste in his mouth. They’re perfectly sharp and staccato, daggers he can plunge into his side whenever he feels that he deserves it most. It’s all wasted on him and he knows it. They know it too, Floch is just the only one with enough brashness to say it. 

It should’ve been Commander Erwin.

As if summoned, the commander’s hollowed face comes to him. His clouded eyes are half-lidded and staring unseeing into nothing, face an ashen grey. His cheeks are sunken and body stiff. The Wings of Freedom are bloodied on his breast pocket. Armin can’t help the pitiful tears as they well and burn in his eyes. Half-formed apologies press against the backs of his teeth, flood his chest and reverberate uselessly in his skull. It’s too late for that. 

“I can’t—” He bites back a sob, “I’ll never be— It should’ve been you! I should’ve stayed _dead!_ ” He’d continue if he could, turning the blade of his own knife against himself in the verbal abuse, but the air is suddenly cut from his lungs. Sputtering and gagging, the world goes dark. There’s a full body wretch and he hunches over miserably. His hands fly to his own throat, as if that would help. There’s a flash of annoyance at himself even now. He takes a sharp, thin breath through his nose and gags again. There’s something...lodged in his trachea. With horror, he tries to swallow but it won’t go down. Finally, a violent hacking cough seizes him and he can feel it dislodge. Whatever it is, it lands in his palm with a little wet smack. It’s almost frightening to look, but he still does. A small purple flower rests in his hand. It’s partly crushed now, shiny with spit and blood. It’s a delicate little thing, narrow spears of petals encircling a yellow-button center. He blinks sluggishly down at it. He’s seen this before.

“Hey!” 

Armin swivels his head sharply, tears drying against his cheeks. 

Oh. 

When had he gotten here? The fields outside Shiganshina shimmer brilliantly in a midsummer haze. The grasses are warm beneath him, soaked in sunshine. Clusters of purple-blue flowers bob their heads lazily in the breeze. His eyes widen. That’s right. Bellflowers. Eren wades through them, waving an arm happily as he approaches. He’s the wrong age. He’s only about nine, one of his front teeth still missing. Armin’s brows furrow.

“Hey, Armin!” He repeats, jogging towards him. 

The earth opens, a great yawning chasm blooming between them. But Eren keeps running, his brilliant grin untarnished. Armin wants to warn him, to yell and scream and cry. But there’s another flower blooming in his throat and all he can do is grip at his neck, eyes watering, as Eren moves relentlessly, unstoppably forward. As he barrels down, down, into the darkness.

Armin awakens with a startled gasp. 

Someone has removed his boots and ruined shirt before placing him into a cot. His feet are well-calloused now, but he can still recall the blisters from training. How they burst and bled even through his doubled wool socks. Every step had come with a hiss of pain and he’d swallowed them all so as to not worry his friends while he struggled to keep up. He blinks, bleary, spots gathering in his vision in the too-bright afternoon light. He still doesn’t feel right, but the unfathomable thought-terminating agony is gone. It’s familiar now, the phantom ache of knowing there should be pain where there isn’t. His thoughts, always spinning wildly in his skull, struggle to comprehend his knit-together body. He rolls his shoulder and sits up. No discomfort rattles his ribs as he luxuriates in a full, deep breath. All that’s left is the flat exhaustion that consumes him after healing. 

“You’re awake.” 

Armin startles. 

“I’m glad,” Eren sits far from him, even in the small space. It’s the medic tent, larger than their sleeping units but not by much. He has his back to the canvas, slumped in a squat wooden chair. His hair is loose, nearly to his shoulders now as he leans forward and takes a deep breath. 

He looks so distant. In the past, he would’ve been so near that his knees would’ve scraped the bedding. Armin swallows, unsure why he’s disappointed. All he can think of is child Eren running so gladly towards his own destruction in the blinding sunshine, Armin’s own voice muzzled and useless. He looks down, gathering the scratchy wool blanket in his fists at his lap. He nods, feeling the ghost of that muzzle even now. He manages a noncommittal hum. 

“Armin,” There’s the soft pad of footsteps against the soil before Eren forces his way into Armin’s line of sight. The cot dips under his weight as he settles on the edge. Slowly, slowly, he coaxes the blanket from between Armin’s curled fingers and intertwines their hands like they’re children again. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you think Floch was right?” 

“No. Absolutely not.” There’s no room for disagreement in his voice. It hardens along with the clench of his jaw. But his grip remains gentle and comforting. The dissonance makes Armin’s head spin. “Don’t say things like that.” 

Armin raises his head to look into grey eyes he knows already are flickering with the ferocity of righteous indignation. There are times when Eren feels far away. His eyes are open, but he isn’t really there by their sides. He sees some great cavernous past, lost in memories that aren’t his own and unable to wade back to the present. He’s confided in Armin about the overwhelming rush of time’s current, but has never gone into great detail about the Founding Titan’s ability. Armin can understand, on a smaller scale. He’s woken chasing Bertolt’s visions against the black of predawn many times, leaving him melancholy and more tired than he was before. He can’t help but fear losing Eren to that riptide, living more in other’s minds and pasts than his own present. But here and now, with his hand held tightly, Eren is right next to him. Armin swallows, knocked breathless by the weight of his gaze. It’s like he’s never been anywhere else. It’s like Armin’s fretted over nothing. Perhaps he has.

“Sorry,” He nods, chided. “I know you don’t like it when I say those things.” 

“I don’t like it because it’s wrong. It’s so _wrong,_ Armin.” 

“I failed the test today. Eren, if I can’t control the blast...” 

Eren huffs, frowning. “It was the first try! Don’t you remember all the time I spent figuring out the Attack Titan?” 

“Ah...that feels so long ago, now.” 

Eren gently squeezes his hand, “I told you about the time my arm transformed when I was just trying to pick up a spoon?” 

“Yeah,” He half-smiles, “You said it freaked everyone out.” 

“There I was, hanging by the elbow from a giant steaming titan fist. I thought they were going to attack me, everyone was so tense. I just wanted a spoon.”

He bites his lip and shakes his head, holding back a laugh. “I bet Hange was excited.” 

“They were. Too excited, if you ask me.” He smiles. It’s a small gesture, but it makes some unseen weight lift from Armin’s shoulders. “We’ll try again. You can reliably transform, you can already walk and lift things. I bet you could even lift a spoon.” 

This pulls a huff of laughter from the other, “Yeah. I bet I could.” 

They quiet, the measured rhythm of Eren’s thumb dragging against Armin’s skin inviting his eyes to flutter shut. He’s not sure for how long he was out, but exhaustion’s pull is nearly eternal at this point. The touch isn’t apprehensive at all when Eren presses his other palm to Armin’s forehead. He takes a breath and leans into it. The touch remains for longer than necessary. He won’t complain. 

“You were so feverish,” He explains and Armin can feel how close he is without even looking, “You sweated and bled through your shirt. We’ll have to get you a new one.” 

He makes a face, “Gross,” 

It’s challenging, drawing his eyes open once more. But when he does, Eren is leaning so close. Even when he drops his hand, he doesn’t move. He’s searching for something in Armin’s pale face, and he lets him. Armin swallows, staring right back. Eren looks like he’s going to say something, his lips parting briefly before he changes course and simply presses their foreheads together for a moment. Armin’s fiercely longed for the days when casual touches were a thoughtless indulgence they shared nearly constantly. Eren had never been good at personal space, and it had never dawned on him before to question it. It likewise had never occurred to him that he’d one day feel its absence like a missing limb. He wants to soak in the revelry of Eren’s touch with an intensity that nearly shakes him. He has to catch his breath.

“Ere— Oh, Armin! You’re awake.” Mikasa’s brushing aside the fabric flaps at the tent’s entrance. She holds a bowl in one hand, a waterskin hanging from her wrist. She smiles, her lips pressed together with relief glimmering in her eyes. “How’re you feeling?” 

“I’m fine, I promise.” He nods, watching as she comes to stand by his bedside. It’s a chore to keep his face from falling as Eren pulls away. But they’re still connected by their hands in his lap. “I’m sorry for giving you such a scare.” 

“That wasn’t your fault. I’ve already told that kid before to be more careful with his gear.” Her eyes flash, almost dangerously. “He won’t forget again.” 

“Oh— um...there’s no need to terrify him. Though...if he’d hit anyone else, they might not have made it.” He laughs feebly, humorless.

She doesn’t look convinced. “Here, eat.” She holds out the bowl and he can now see its steaming contents. “There’s bread, too. I can bring some back. You need your strength.” 

He takes it from her, untangling his hand from Eren’s. It’s fresh soup, vegetables and barley bobbing in the red-brown broth. He’s hardly eaten properly; he's been so busy between diplomatic relations with the Anti-Marleyan volunteers and the Colossal Titan exercises. He knows she watches him just as much as she watches Eren. She’s absolutely noticed the hollows between his ribs expanding. It sends a pang of guilt down his spine and he forces himself to grip the spoon. It’s almost too hot as he swallows. It could use a little salt, but field rations are hardly ever luxurious. They both watch him expectantly, so he takes another sip and then nods. 

“Thank you, Mikasa. It’s perfect.” 

“I’ll go get some bread.” 

Eren tilts his head, “Look at that, you _can_ lift a spoon.”

### 

ii

A year later, he finds himself at the sea. The day breaks slowly, pink and gold filtering through the wisps of clouds overhead. They float lazily over the water and as the veil of night is lifted, Armin is already quite far down the shore. He isn’t far from the harbor, but he walks steadily away from it and watches as the waters rush in. They’re fading black to navy to a soft grey-blue and he can hardly believe how beautiful, even after years of the sight. He’d slid on his boots in the dark that morning, and has kept them on even as he progresses through the sand. It was a lesson he’d only needed to learn once, the coast’s brutal numbing cold as of yet unheated by the sun.

There’s a detour up and through the dunes as he circles back, layered shallow root systems cross hatching the ground. He holds a notebook beneath his arm. It’s been with him since they were cadets, four years ago. The leather is softened at the edges and scuffed in places, but he holds it gingerly as he kneels before a particular patch of plants. It’s a new species, well new to _him_. He plucks one of its leaves and tucks it gently between the pages for later. It’s possible one of the Anti-Marleyan volunteers will be familiar with it and can help him identify the genus. The thrill of something novel, even if seemingly insignificant, will never wear off. Trudging forward again, he eyes the open sky and watches until the sun is a wash of pale peach and lilac. It’s easy, in the pensive early morning stillness, to wonder at the state of the tides. To try to predict how much time he has until they begin to lower again. He’s noticed that they come in cycles; narrowing down the average times becomes a burgeoning pet project of his. 

He smells smoke as he approaches camp. They must be awake. Still, his progress halts as a spark of color catches his eye. A cluster of purple flowers waves and clings to the liminal space between sand and soil. Armin’s eyes widen and he kneels to gaze at them more closely. It’s unexpected to see these growing so far out. He wonders at the ingenuity of nature. The universe has a demonstrable preference for life. Perhaps the seeds had been carried out by a bird? Perhaps they had been created by a god who values these varied lives as much as Armin does? Perhaps not. Maybe a flower is just a flower. But as Onyankopon had said, isn’t there freedom in simply considering these things? 

“Hey, breakfast is almost ready.” Eren’s voice interrupts from above. He nods and plucks up the delicate blooms before standing. Eren watches his progress up the incline, only briefly squinting at the horizon. 

“Here,” He holds the flowers out. 

He takes them and considers for a moment, “That’s nice, Armin.” Then he turns and heads back towards camp. 

Armin somehow feels chagrined, childish for marvelling at something so small. It only dawns on him now that his action killed the blossoms, the very things he’d been trying to appreciate. And it seems it’s for no reason as they hadn’t even lit a dim spark of recognition in Eren’s eyes. The mornings are often like this, Eren adrift in thought and quiet as they force down their dry rations. The fire beats back the dawn’s chill and Armin holds his fingers toward it. They’re pink from cold, like his nose and cheeks. Mikasa offers her jacket to him, but he declines graciously. It’s an old routine of theirs, but he and Mikasa dance the dance. They know all of the steps, anyways. Eren’s stopped fussing over him like he used to and he still hasn’t decided if it’s an intentional act of mercy or not. They lock eyes over the fire, just for a moment, and Armin lifts a hand in greeting. He nods, unspeaking. It’s as if Eren needs to warm up to the waking hours, his presence of mind inching back incrementally as the sun rises in the sky. 

Their little cluster of tents have clung between the dunes for three days now. There was unusual Marley chatter on the radio waves, the miracle of the small voices drifting through the receiver undercut only by the threat they’d presented. It could be nothing, the forces taking to speaking in a code that they’re already working to decrypt now that they know Marleyan units have been taken on Paradis. But it could be something. And with the harbour an obvious target, they lay in hiding in the near-distance. It’s only for a little while, until they can confirm the danger has passed. Other units of stronger numbers of soldiers are tucked away, further back behind the low-rolling hills. But their greatest weapons must be on the frontlines, Armin understands. So he sets up his small tent just a bit further from Eren and Mikasa, where all he hears is the tumble of water and wind, where he can let the white droning noise of it dampen his thoughts to silence in the dark. 

They go through their morning drills, falling into the day’s routine. A meeting with Hange reveals a half-completed cypher, a labor of love from a former soldier who’d helped author a few of them for Marley herself. She’s quick-witted and sly of tongue, clearly bringing joy to Hange’s routine check-in. Armin can’t help but feel the weight of this woman’s existence, shrewd yet open-minded and willing to step into the den of devils. How many like her would they be holding hostage, threatening the world with The Rumbling? Proving a point he wants so painfully to disprove? They’re prepping now, Armin assisting in pinning down the final details of their undercover scouting mission to Marley. They leave soon, and he finds himself torn between the exhilaration of a new experience and the dread of discovering something they’ll only find discouraging. Some overturned stones greet you with nothing but the ugly, wriggling sight of venomous insects. But still, he hopes. Still, he has to make plans for a future they can embrace together. He has to overturn that stone. 

The morning passes to lunchtime, which passes to the inevitability of afternoon. When Mikasa calls to him from the entrance of the commander’s tent, he’s glad to have the rote routine of maintenance to pass the time. They haven’t used the maneuver gear in days, they’re about due for their training drills. But they still have standard issue knives to sharpen and extra harnesses to oil, keeping the leather soft and pliable. 

Eren plops down next to him around their long-cooled fire pit, pulling the knife from his belt and grabbing his whetstone. It isn’t often they’re so close anymore. Armin smiles just a little, returning his oil to his kit and dropping his extra harness back in its bag. Mikasa’s on his other side, glancing towards him before letting her own soft smile paint her face. The tide is rushing out, receding down their small strip of sand steady as clockwork and the sound of it echoes between them. Eren’s focused as always, intense about his duties as a soldier since they were much younger. Armin can see the very tip of his tongue protruding between his lips as his brows furrow. It’s another familiar sight, and it has him biting back the huff of a laugh before he can stop himself. 

Eren freezes, “What?” 

“Nothing,” He shakes his head. 

Eren bumps their shoulders together, and Armin nearly drops his whetstone. It isn’t clear if the action is merely happenstance, and they’ve been so distant that it sends Armin’s heart soaring into his throat. Some small, sick, part of him hates it. He hates how Eren can pull away so hard for so long and yet still he’ll come surging back at the smallest indication that Eren will have him. It’s as if he can reach inside him, manually coax his breath to come faster and his pulse to race. It’s terrifying, the sway he has over them. But still, Armin can’t stop the little jump in his chest. Perhaps worst of all, he’s not certain he’d want it to stop. His grip tightens around the stone, fishing his knife from his side. Drown it out, drown it out. Push it out to sea through the estuaries of his split consciousness, focusing on the task at hand as his longing bleeds so vibrantly from him. 

He’s been pursued by insecurity and denial, tailspinning together in his skull in a crashing cacophony that he can’t escape. In the moment, he can’t tell if he’s made steady or more unsure. He’s believed there’s no way that he doesn’t understand his best friend. He’s known him for so long, sharing beds and fears and secrets. Sharing dreams. The idea that he’s sitting next to a stranger unnerves him. That can’t be so. Eren is ultimately the same person, even in the face of new challenges. He and Mikasa are home, and they always will be. The moments of fear and memories of relief course through Armin’s wavering heart and leave him flickering like a light in the wind. He recalls it now, the sweat that had rolled down his back at the end of a long day laying railroad ties together. The modernization of Paradis came faster than they could’ve imagined. He’d run the handcar with care, racing the sun back home. Conversation had come easy, even if Eren had spent much of it a passive observer. But finally, he spoke up. He had said he wanted them to have long lives. They were important to him, still. He cared, he cared, he _cared_. And oh, how the words had made them so awash in relief that they’d reddened and Armin blamed it on the sun. 

Armin bumps him back now, gentle, as if testing the waters. Eren blinks at him for a moment. There must be some thought running through him, but it startles Armin to realize that he can’t even guess at what it is. 

Finally, Eren settles. “What was that for?” 

“You bumped into me,” He offers, realizing he may have miscalculated. To be so desperate as to bet on intent when an accident was just as possible. Perhaps moreso. He runs the blade against the stone and turns his gaze away. 

“Sorry,” Eren sighs, quiet, “I was focusing.” 

When they lapse back into silence, Armin’s grip only tightens. Ah. It was an accident. He’s just a despondent little fool, dancing on a string that’s barely even being pulled anymore. He swallows thickly, angling the blade and drawing it forward. He feels the strain of that string, feels it tighten around his throat with each of his hands’ rote movements. His fingers lock around the knife handle and press, press, press down against the whetstone. He presses and presses and tries to blot out all but the sea breathing at their backs, but it all comes tumbling upon him anyways until— 

“Oh,” The sound falls limply from his mouth. Staring down at his bloodied hand is useless, but he does it anyway. Long past the risk of accidental transformation, the crimson simply wells up in the crook where thumb meets palm. It gathers in the rivulets, in heart and life lines. The steam follows, lethargic as his raw flesh slowly begins to knit itself back together again. His grip had grown so stiff that he’d simply slipped down the handle and to the biting metal. The blood drips soundlessly to the ground.

“Here,” Eren fishes something from his pocket, an off-white square of linen. Very methodically, he wraps it around Armin’s palm. There are no excess movements, careful to avoid contact with the blood. Still, the tips of his fingers brush the thrumming veins beneath Armin’s wrist and the blond shivers despite himself. His hands are steady and overly warm, fingers nimbly gathering the fabric into a knot. Mikasa and Armin watch with wide eyes.

Armin blinks, confused. He worries at his lower lip with his teeth. 

“You’ll bleed on the whetstone.” It’s all he says before returning to work. 

Darkness falls slowly and then all at once. Armin finally abandons his field notes once squinting by firelight becomes too much. His head aches and droops, lack of sleep beginning to catch up with him. He isn’t sure where Eren’s gone, whether to the main camp or just on a walk. Mikasa presses close at his side and simply watches the stars. Her fingertips play at her scarf just as his seek out the handkerchief he has yet to free from his palm. Quietly, she shifts until they lean against one another and he allows for it. Her warmth is welcome in the ever-deepening night. There’s a separate, quieter devotion between them. Here they are, two flames stubbornly flickering against the dark. He knows they’re both thinking it, because he knows Mikasa end to wonderful end. Eren is _right there_ and yet somehow he’s not. All they can do is hold fast to each other and leave their extra hands open. They’re both dancing on that string, tugged along through wind and mud until they threaten to come apart at the seams. Their fingers intertwine and they sag into one another. Mikasa is human. She needs comfort, too. Even if she doesn’t know how to ask for it. So, he whispers to her about the stars until he feels the dip-jerk of her head lolling against the call of sleep. He kisses the lovely crown of her hair, and rouses her. Eren still isn’t back when they part. 

“I remember them.” 

Armin jumps, nearly knocking over the low lamp in his tent. He hadn’t heard Eren’s approach. He’d been swimming too far out to sea in his own head. He swallows, touching gingerly at the lantern. The space is so squat against the ground that they both must stoop to avoid hitting their heads. Eren even moreso. He closes the canvas flaps behind him and looks to Armin expectantly. It’s the first time they’ve been really, truly alone together in nearly a year.

“Remember what?” He asks lamely. 

“The flowers. From outside Shiganshina.” 

“Ah,” He casts his gaze downward, towards his wavering shadow. “Bellflowers.” 

“Bellflowers,” Eren repeats as if testing the word, “Do you think it still looks the same?”

Armin shrugs, pulse thudding uncomfortably in his ears. “We...could go back and look someday.” 

He nods, “Sounds nice.” 

“We can visit. When we return from Marley.” 

“Yeah,” There’s a long, hard pause. “Yeah, we can.” 

Armin’s hands tremble and he hates it. He hates himself. He hates the way his heart has already lifted in his chest at the words. Clenching his jaw, he begins his nighttime routine, unsure of what else to do. The harness must come off first, worn in case of emergency despite not needing their maneuver gear that day. But his grip is unsteady under Eren’s watchful gaze and he curses beneath his breath. Eren notices him struggling and clasps his hands over Armin’s, stilling him. Without a word, he begins to unbuckle the harness. Armin freezes. Eren continues, steady, freeing the thick strap from his chest. He works his way slowly downward, and Armin can’t help the soft sound of relief when he releases the belts around his thighs. They’re always too tight, chafing. But any looser and his gear won’t be anchored properly. Eren looks up at him and his face colors, the tips of his ears going red. He manages a soft _thank you_ and if Eren hears the tremor in his voice, he doesn’t say so.

In the past, Armin had been so embarrassed by assistance. The other boys sometimes accused him of being coddled and it left a sour taste in his mouth like bile. There were times during training when he’d lost the strength to stand, Eren half-carrying him to bed before helping to free him from their uniform. His protests were useless back then, but still he had to push back against the humiliation of being less than. Of being weak. Of course, he’s still weak. Simply in a different way, as he loses the ability to protest against anything Eren does. He can undo the harness even through shaking hands, he has before. And yet he does nothing to stop him. He can’t. He won’t. He doesn’t _want_ to. He’s weak. When Eren straightens and brushes the straps from his shoulders, the harness thumps softly against the bedroll. He doesn’t move, can hardly breathe. He feels the string jerk sharply, painfully. Blue eyes blink to grey, the lantern light casting his eyelashes nearly white. Eren’s so close he can feel his warmth and something swells and rises between them. The roar of high tide fills his ears, echoes in his skull. His cup runneth over and flushes out all thought. 

And then Eren’s lips are on his. 

It’s a rough, insistent kiss. The force of it has Armin stepping back, nearly tripping over his fallen gear, but Eren only follows. He catches Armin by the nape, his other hand at his waist. He’s been treading water for so long, but this? This is enough to drown him. Stiff at first, Armin melds to Eren’s touch, presses their chests together and follows him back for more. They’ve kissed before, they just haven’t really talked about it. It began with the innocent pecks of childhood, soothing against tears and bloodied knuckles. One winter in the work camp, Armin had caught a terrible sickness. It had stolen every drop of strength from him until he couldn’t rise from their threadbare bedding and Eren and Mikasa held him fiercely against the cold all night, despite his weak protests that he’d give it to them. They’d both kissed his feverish forehead and refused to listen. Finally, in training, he’d woken once to find Eren on his side and gazing intently at him. He blinked owlishly, knowing that the other was prone to terrible nightmares. Finally, he’d patted the bedding beside him and allowed Eren to nestle closely to his side without a word. He still hadn’t spoken as he pushed Armin’s hair from his face and gently, gently, brushed their lips together. Armin’s eyes had fluttered shut and when he opened them again, Eren was already trying to sleep. 

This time, it’s different. Eren moves relentlessly, unstoppably, forward. And Armin wants to drown in it. _Why this? Why now? Where have you been? Where do you go? Why won’t you come back?_ The questions rise and tangle at the back of Armin’s skull and he mouths them into Eren’s skin, unable to give them voice. Lips parting, he offers all on the altar and he’s never felt so vulnerable. He’d do anything to believe in this man that he loves, would kiss him a million times if it could restore this nameless, missing _thing_ between them. And he hates it. He hates that all Eren has to do is glance in his direction and he’ll run to meet him even after so much painful silence. He’s missed him so much, but he hasn’t even gone anywhere. And Armin knows that he and Mikasa will always leave a hand open for Eren, will always reach for him across the chasm. They were born to be together, the certainty of it lies in his very bones. There’s a fire in his gut as Eren holds him nearly painfully tightly and he surrenders to it all. There’s no protest within him as Eren coaxes him down to his bedroll. Eren slides off his own shirt before he cages him in, hovering above him with one knee on either side of his thighs. They spare only a moment, Eren dimming the lantern until they’re thrown into darkness. 

“Is this okay?” It’s the first thing he’s said that sounds even remotely vulnerable.

Armin can barely formulate a thought, but he manages a small nod. “Yes. Please.” 

Please. So he’s begging now, is he? Before he can decide if that makes him hate himself, Eren brings his bandaged hand upward until he can tug at the loose end with his teeth. It unwinds and he tosses it to the ground. The wound is closed, perfect new skin at his palm, and Eren kisses each of his fingertips. The movement is slow and Armin can’t look away, hypnotized. Finally he laces their fingers together and returns to Armin’s mouth. A hunger grows between them, and when Eren tugs his lower lip between his teeth and _sucks_ he has to grip at Eren’s back to ground himself. He squirms and Eren pulls back for a moment, searching. Armin moves a hand to the nape of Eren’s neck and brings him down to kiss him hard. They’re learning each other’s tempo, how to breathe and tilt their heads so their noses don’t bump. He can’t help but feel that something is changing, that there’s a sword above their heads. It’s the rush of ocean water pulling back, back, around your ankles while you remain stationary. It’s dizzying. When Eren begins untucking his shirt and working away at the buttons, he’s too submerged to care. He should be self-conscious, always is despite the fact that they’ve seen each other undressed so many times. And yet. 

They pause so the shirt can be discarded to the side, Eren’s overwarm hand pressing to his sternum and feeling the frantic thrum of his heart. Even in the dark, the skin there is so pale it’s nearly translucent. Eren murmurs his name, leaning forward so the breath puffs against his ear before shifting to catch the skin at the front of his throat beneath his lips. If he’s murmuring words against his skin, Armin is beyond hearing them. When he finds Armin’s carotid, he takes a moment to mouth loosely against his pulse, all tongue and teeth. The blood rushes there, just beneath that delicate, pretty skin. He tastes of salt and soap and the tilt of Armin’s head, allowing him access, is a show of trust. The blond is aware only of the swelling, impossible heat as Eren closes his mouth around the skin and sucks. Hard. It’s nearly painful and his hand fists in the brown tangle of Eren’s hair as he breathes out a quiet, needy sound. His eyes flutter shut and Eren moves just a touch lower and does it again. Small lilac-red bruises are already forming and will be gone before they can mean anything at all. He kisses a trail along Armin’s jaw, allowing him to catch his breath. When he returns, he sucks at the overly-sensitive skin again, as if to be sure he’s really been there. Armin can’t muffle the short _ah_ that falls from his lips, but then Eren’s teething at it experimentally before finally, he bites down. A sharp flash of pain sears through him, but Armin can’t help but arch his back, their bodies pressing together, skin against skin. A small strangled gasp of Eren’s name is all that he can manage. Eren stutters, shuddering a hot breath against him. The aftermath is a confusing patchwork of pleasure and discomfort. Something animal inside of him warns of how easy it would be for Eren to tear it all out between his bared teeth, bloodied and raw. He wonders if he’d even do anything to stop him. Eren groans when he pulls him back for a slow, deep kiss. 

Nobody else can unravel him with such efficiency, plucking at each seam until he’s coming entirely undone. He pulls every last stitch and Armin lets him. Would beg for him to do it again.

Eren is gone by sunrise, like it didn’t happen. Like it was nothing but one of Armin’s desperate, humiliating dreams that he must deny by morning. But there are quickly-fading bruises at his waist and collar bones, proof that he’s touched and been touched. Overwhelmed, he throws open the tent. The wind whips biting and fierce at Armin’s cheeks, chapping the soft skin there. Eren’s left him with nothing but an unspoken goodbye hanging in the air.

### 

iii

When they lose Eren in Marley, Armin feels that swollen chasm between them widen. No, no. That isn’t right. They haven’t lost him. He wanted to leave. That was his choice. Eren had known that he was going to do this to them. This was his plan all along. They can make educated guesses as to his whereabouts, his intentions, but few are helpful and even fewer are optimistic. Armin can still recall the bitter stab of Levi’s voice as he spat _that damn kid_ into his tea cup during their first meeting back in Paradis. It had sent tremors through him as their predicament became impossible to deny and Mikasa steadied him with a hand on his back. It’s been months now, and Hange is trying to remain sensitive to his closeness with Eren. But even they struggle to keep the sobering hypotheses from running from their tongue like bitter ichor. They laugh whenever they say something that makes Armin’s eyes flicker to the floor, pat his shoulder and offer some small parcel of consolation, but he knows they’re right. It would be foolish and naive to _not_ consider every possibility.

It’s too dangerous to go back. Even Mikasa knows this, and watching her gaze dim into a somber flatness breaks Armin’s heart anew. They cannot simply rush into enemy territory again, no leads and no guarantee they’ll even find him. They cannot chase after a man who doesn’t want to be found. But the loss of a figure as important as Eren Yeager is not an uncomplicated one. It’s an uphill battle to convince the leaders of Paradis that he’ll one day return at all, much less that he doesn’t deserve to be strung up as a traitor upon that return. Armin’s unsure that his words sway any hearts. Even his best efforts aren’t always enough. At times he still awakens with the cannon blast from Trost ringing in his ears. Other times he can’t sleep, knowing that Bertolt may still be alive if he had just been able to talk him down in Shiganshina. It all fills him with a dread he fears he can neither name nor bear. But he must persist, he knows that. 

So, they wait. 

Spring quietly sweeps into summer. The days stretch and lengthen, the sky a pale spotless blue. Armin presses his back to a tree and stares up into the limitless expanse above. He’s plucked a flower from the earth, the very same he’d gifted to Eren by the sea. They haunt him now, the effect of never noticing something common until you go looking for it. He rotates it idly in his grip, but doesn’t look at it. An ice cold pit of insecurity only grows into a deeper and deeper well within him. It’s always been there, but now he feels so hollowed out. His insides have been excavated and replaced with absolutely nothing. That stark all-consuming emptiness numbs him. He’s simply a shell reporting for duty every morning and failing to sleep every night. He thinks of those final days spent by the seaside with Eren and Mikasa, of the late summer afternoons they spent as children, dipping their feet and splashing in the shallows of a creek. They’d idle by the wall sometimes, swallowed in its shadow as Eren glared daggers at their cage. He’d grasp his hand and tell him of the sea to soothe that righteous anger. 

Is all of this his fault for giving Eren this dream? 

He still wants to believe the world is beautiful. Someday they’ll be able to see snowfields of sand and planes of fire just as they saw the sea. But is it possible that the day he ran to Eren’s side with that book was the day that he’d sealed their fate? Is Eren relentlessly, unstoppably rushing them toward uncontrolled cataclysm? What could he possibly be doing alone in Marley? And without telling them a word of his plan to depart? 

Mikasa joins him, eventually. It’s a quiet routine they share. Being pinned down by their friends’ pitying gazes can only get so old. Today, however, she breaks routine. She hands him a worn book, the inscription long faded from the spine. The familiarity of it has his heart dropping like a stone into his belly. He stares blankly at it and she waits for a long moment.

“Do you want to read with me?” 

This makes his throat grow tight and something burns at the back of his eyes. Truthfully, he hasn’t felt terribly interested in books in a while. Things that once brought him joy now throw his misery into sharp relief. The book comes to rest in his lap and he plucks up the flower again before tucking it behind her ear. 

He nods, swallowing thickly. “Sure,” 

His voice wavers a bit as he goes, but if she notices she doesn’t comment. She leans her head on his shoulder and tucks her left arm through his right. The weight at his side grounds him, just a little. And when a tear lands on the page that doesn’t belong to him, he doesn’t comment either. He steadies eventually, slipping into a familiar lulling cadence as he flips through illustrations of great red-wooded trees and impossibly deep silvery lakes. He knows she likes the passages about the northern skies the best. So, he paints the picture for her: Soaring wonders, ribbons of color and light slicing through the black and dancing slowly through the night. They relax against one another, clinging like children again. Eventually, reluctantly, he has to close the book. Obligations call even when the world is crumbling apart in their hands.

“Captain Levi won’t like it if I’m late…” He murmurs, but can’t quite bring himself to move. 

Mikasa is so achingly present. She sighs and the warmth of it curls at his collar bones. They do straighten eventually, Mikasa offering a hand to help him to his feet. And just this once, he takes it. The dark of her eyes melts like iron and for a long moment, he’s held in her gaze.

“Armin,” She still holds his hand in hers, “It’ll be okay. We just have to trust him.” 

All he can do is nod mutely, gazing down at their fingers. So she tilts his head up gently, by the chin. She kisses each of his cheeks, before pressing her lips against his, dry and soft. It’s light and childlike, comforting. The touch is gone in an instant and they both know it’s time to part ways. His head buzzes, the feeling of static gathering beneath his skin. The memory of lips against his sends the sound of the ocean crashing loud and painful through his skull. 

When Eren’s letter arrives, they’re crying before they can even read the contents. Armin hates the tremor in his fingers, but neither Hange nor Levi say a word about it. The text itself is so bizarre and cold. Detached. He and Zeke have a plan, and he’ll move forward with or without them. Armin can’t help but feel he’s gotten word from a stranger, but he’d know Eren’s handwriting anywhere. The script is slanted, etched in messy downward strokes as if using a pen as a sword. 

Mikasa smiles through her tears, “It’s him, Armin. It’s him. He’s alright.” 

“Well, at least we know the kid’s alive,” Hange confirms, frowning. 

Despite his nagging fears about if he’s truly _alright_ , Armin has to smile and embrace Mikasa. Still, he doesn’t miss how Levi and Hange look at each other when they think they won’t notice. It’s etched clearly in the lines of their faces: A great and terrible doubt. 

It’s him. 

It’s Eren. 

It’s…

The empty hole in Armin’s chest that has been numb for so long erodes just a bit, the edges newly raw and red. Mikasa presses her weight against him, sags in relief, and he feels like he’s going to be sick. Eren is mercurial. Ever-shifting, despite being a fixed point for others. Mercury has its uses, of course. There is a place it belongs. In thermometers, in mirrors. But ultimately, if the thermometer shatters between your lips, it’s still toxic. He hates this doubt, this need to take a second look at him every time Eren glances away. But he’s beginning to suspect him of some unknowable transgression. Suspecting him of being unknowable at all is perhaps the most frightening part for him. The selfishness of it is stifling, but he can’t let it go. 

He feels the snakes in the grass, but he can’t tell which will bite first.

### 

iiii

It’s not difficult to conjure the taste of iron and grit on his tongue, the memory of blood in his mouth, on his face, dribbling to the stark white of his shirt. The betrayal had been searing. The freedom described by Onyankopon and the freedom coveted by Eren Yeager were two truly different ideals, it became clear to Armin. _I’ve always hated you._ Armin understood each word individually, but strung together and lurching from Eren’s mouth...they were incomprehensible. Unforgivable. They’d fought before, but never like this. Never with that raw despair settled into the lines of Mikasa’s face. Eren had never been shy to bare his fangs, but to be on the receiving end of that with such cold ferocity had shaken them both. It had felt so sudden, and yet perhaps not. Perhaps the core of his anger, this feral capacity to lash out in the face of something deemed unacceptable to him, had always been there.

Perhaps they had simply averted their gazes. 

The crack of teeth and jaw hadn’t been as miserable as the sheer shuddering weight of betrayal as Eren beat him until he needed Mikasa’s support to even stand. The bright flashes of pain had cut through the white noise buzzing in his head at the whole alien ordeal of Eren’s mannerisms. It awoke him as if from a terrible dream, to an even worse reality. Armin had never expected to lash out at him. But before he’d known what he was doing, he’d started the first fight of his life. Eren, of course, finished it. And yet still, even in their cell, Armin couldn’t just let go. Dripping blood and steaming weakly, he’d heard the tumble of the sea in his ears and felt the searing ghost of Eren’s embrace on his skin. It was Eren. It all was Eren. It always had been. There had to be something they were missing. He wouldn’t go along with Zeke like that. There was another puzzle piece that Armin simply had to find. He had clung to hope and worked so hard to believe, to get the others to follow him in that wavering faith like candles flickering in a storm. But oh, how he tasted that failure all over again when The Rumbling began in earnest anyway. 

Maybe Eren hadn’t changed? Maybe, he simply never knew him in full.

Even so, he can’t just declare that it’s over. It’s like touching a stove without checking if it’s hot. Armin gets burned over and over again, but he can’t stop trying. He can’t stop believing that there’s another way. Not until they’ve exhausted every option. Not until it is fully, truly over. After all, he’d sooner die than be a burden. If Eren is moving forward, so will he. Perhaps they had always been set to diverge. To be back in that room, raw and bloody at Eren’s hands, would be a nostalgic comfort now. The colossal titans move relentlessly, unstoppably, forward and he chokes on the dust and the wind. It sets his eyes watering and he must blink up against the sun and think and think and think. Armin has heard members of the wall cult talk of sin. Greed, avarice, covetousness. Perhaps he’s guilty of something like pride. Not in himself or his own achievements, but in Eren. In his faith that he understands this man through and through. If neither Erwin nor Eren are the saviors of humanity, maybe Armin isn’t either? Maybe this is their downfall?

But he won’t concede. Not yet. 

It both takes a lifetime and happens in the blink of an eye. They touch down upon Eren’s great shuddering mass, cutting through impossible hoards of titans while they work towards their goal. He knows what it may come to, he really does. Mikasa may be in denial, but this dark and terrible thought had occurred to Armin before any of their comrades had even voiced the question. _Can you kill Eren? _He’s always been so prone to dark and terrible thoughts, hasn’t he? It’s a question he’s asked himself so many times that its contours are worn and dulled in his mind. What are you willing to sacrifice? Can you throw away your humanity? Can you throw away the man that you love? He’d placed his still-beating heart on the altar by the sea and it hadn’t brought him back.__

__When his world is blotted out and he reawakens in an unearthly plane, absent sun or sound, he can hardly bring himself to stand he’s so exhausted from the fight. It’s an unimaginable realm of endless sands, bursting into beaming tendrils of light on an impossible horizon. Neither moon nor sun watch over him, only strange clusters of stars unlike any constellations on earth. There is no wind, no weather. It’s simply uncanny in its stillness. He’s frozen in the sand, blinking up at the sky. How had he— ? He remembers being cornered by a titan and scooped into its terrifying maw. It had been hot, clammy, and blacker than night. And now he’s…_ _

__There’s a hand extended into his line of sight._ _

__He’d know the contours of those fingers anywhere. But they’re smaller than he remembers. He gazes up into the face of a child, eyes wide and shining with something he can’t place._ _

__“E-Eren…?”_ _

__The child doesn’t move, simply offering his help. How painful it is, to reenact something so familiar from a childhood they’ll never revisit._ _

__“I don’t need help to stand.” He insists, as he always has, and pushes up from the sand. It looks even more uncanny now, the horizon on all sides lacking anything but that staggering, pulsing light. It’s a place where nothing can bloom. A place outside of time where no growth will ever prevail. Eren has gone where they cannot follow. He remembers Mikasa’s broken words atop the wall, that time years ago after Reiner took Eren from them. All she wants is to be by his side, but it always ends up like this. Doesn’t it? Armin can’t help but feel the same. He is their North Star, forever shrinking into the distance before he winks out entirely. And still, they keep their hands open. Still they reach across the chasm, as impossible as it may be. And they will, they will, they will, until they have no strength left to reach._ _

__Armin has to try, one last time. “Where are we, Eren?”_ _

__The child tilts his head and blinks up at him. But in one dizzying moment, he’s gone. Armin is left to swivel on his feet, disoriented, until he’s turned all the way around. And there, there is who he’s been looking for this whole time. Eren Yeager stands, the right age, the right height, the right everything, except not._ _

__“Eren, please—” He opens his hand and offers it to his best friend, “It isn’t too late. It’s never too late.”_ _

__He merely shakes his head, eyes hard and far away._ _

__Armin steels himself. He steps forward until they’re within arm’s reach. “Everyone is out there, Eren. They’re in danger. They’re_ dying._ Marley isn’t a concern anymore. And the rest of the world won’t bother with us for a long time. Can’t we please just—” 

“No.” 

Armin nearly flinches. “No?” 

He shakes his head again, grim. His palms close into fists at his sides. 

“Oh,” What else is there to say? 

He scans Eren’s face, traces the outlines of features he’s spent years admiring from afar. There had been envy. Envy of strength, of courage, of ambition. But that had never been the full picture. His longing, he knows now, had never been about that. For all of the praise that he receives for being a tactical mind, it’s taken him far too long to realize _this_. What is he willing to sacrifice? He’s pledged his heart. Now what will he do? He swallows, mouth suddenly very dry. The sword above their heads looms dangerously and in a mere moment he’s decided to commit Eren’s face to memory. He raises his outstretched hand and Eren doesn’t stop him. He presses his fingertips to Eren’s jawline and traces them up to the fevered apples of his cheeks. Eren simply watches, expressionless. Carefully, he leans forward. He’s nearly on the tips of his toes when he brings their lips together. Eren is so still, unmoving as they kiss. He does not close his eyes. Armin feels his heart shatter on the altar, fears he’s leaving it behind in this timeless space. This is a farewell. 

When they pull away, Eren closes his eyes only for a moment before he commands, “Fight.”

“Okay,” He steps back, but refuses to look away. “Okay, we will. _I_ will.” He presses his palm to Eren’s chest and feels the thud of a heartbeat, so eerily even and calm. “Goodbye, Eren.” 

And then he’s being cut from a titan’s mouth, thrown into noise and chaos and light. The choice has been made. Their fate has been sealed. 

Their world ends in an all-consuming bolt of light. It mushrooms into the sky and expands, obliterating everything in its path. The god of destruction has made his presence known and the thunder of it is a great wailing sob. The oppressive heat licks at Armin’s nape and limbs, dizzying. He hardly feels it. He hardly feels anything at all. He doesn’t have to be close to Mikasa to know that she’s crying. It’s with a small jolt that he realizes he is, too. Their world was born between the three of them, holding hands and having the audacity to dream. And now, it’s over. It’s irreparable. All that’s left of the one they love is a steaming pile of bones evaporating in the soil. Armin leaves the Colossal Titan’s body with it, returning to dust together. 

Mikasa has to catch Armin in her arms, his maneuvering is so shaky. The others cry in relief, Connie letting out a yell half of anguish and of reprieve. Armin can’t identify any of the words being said to them. Mikasa wraps her arms around him and holds him fiercely, pressing her wet face to his collar. They collapse in on each other and drop to the ground, small clusters of purple flowers crushed beneath their boots. They don’t even notice them, shaking and heaving and sobbing together. All they can feel is each other and the great unnerving sensation of a missing limb. 

Neither has the strength to stand for a long while.

But eventually, painfully, they do. Together.

**Author's Note:**

> gay, but make it sad this time. 
> 
> i left a few bits kinda open to reader interpretation because i feel like that's fun. (': 
> 
> anyways, armin arlert is the only reason i'm still here. love that kid. <3 
> 
> you can find me @ peachpitss on tumblr dot com if you'd like ! 
> 
> thanks for reading! if you have any feedback/comments, i'd love to hear it! 
> 
> please take care!


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